Heather Brown - Wife turned on

Then my landlord raised the rent. He, too, told me that if I had any complaints I should take them to court.

The handwriting was on the wall. However much it pained me to venture into the cruel glare of the outside world, I had to find a job.

My vocational problem was, needless to say, apparent. After years of being a wife and mother, I didn't know how to do anything.

My spirits sank so low that I even thought about prostitution as a career. After all, I did know how to fuck.

Then I remembered my one experience in that line of work. That sailor in the alley. In terms of getting any money, it had been a total flop. Given my ability to stand up to men for my rights, I could see myself getting VD or beaten to death long before I paid my bills.

It became clear that my only hope for a job was to be willing to volunteer for something nobody else wanted to do. Something most people would consider beneath them.

Well, how does cleaning up animal shit sound to you? Would you do it? I had to.

A veterinarian advertised in the paper that he needed somebody. After the ad appeared in the classifieds for several days running, I reasoned that the work was unpleasant enough that I might qualify for it.

For once I was right.

"It's really very simple," Dr. Greer told me when he interviewed me. "Your duties would consist of all the tasks relating to animal care that I certainly didn't have to go six years to the university to learn. Do you follow me?"

"Cleaning up after them, I suppose," I figured it out. "Taking the dogs for walks."

"Precisely," he said. "No thinking involved – just simple maintenance work."

Since my private life was one of isolation, to begin with, the animals I cleaned up after became my major contact with the world outside of my furnished room and the game shows. The fact that they liked me was just about the only source of satisfaction in my life.

Because I took them out for nightly exercise, it was the dogs I became closest to. There were always a lot of them in Greer's kennel. Pretty soon I started to relate to them almost as I would to people, except they were superior because they never criticized or betrayed me.

Since nobody was around, I would frequently read their charts. I came to worry about their various ailments, and although I was always sorry to see a friend leave, I was always glad they had recovered enough to go home.

Thor and Spike were different, however. The two Great Danes were not hospitalized because of anything wrong with them – in fact, quite the opposite.

They belonged to some lady living in the poshest part of town who complained that they were spoiling her furniture and carpets with their instinctively masculine habit of staking out their territory by pissing all over everything. Dr. Greer had advised her that this could be halted by having them neutered.

In other words, castrating them. Chopping off their balls. They were such magnificent beasts that it pained me to know they were about to be robbed of their masculinity.

Their operations were scheduled for a Thursday.

On the Wednesday evening before, I went to their cages as though to console them. I felt like a chaplain visiting a couple of prisoners on the eve of their execution.

I was broke. Down and out. Completely without self-respect.

In order to pay my rent, I was forced to sell my only contact with the outside world, my car. However, the few hundred dollars it brought only delayed my descent into the bottom of the barrel of life by a few meaningless weeks. By the time my wallet was empty again, I was even worse off than before.

Even before I lost the ear, looking for another job seemed out of the question. Who would ever hire someone who radiated uselessness the way I did?

Holed up in my room, and drinking more everyday, I even gave up the game shows I had habitually watched. The happy faces of the winners were too much for, me. It hardly seemed fair that other people could experience joy when my life was so utterly lacking in it.

Day after day I stayed in bed, getting drunk, staring at the wallpaper and counting the repetition of its rosy design. My mind was saturated with unpleasantness and depression.

Of course, the more I thought about my plight, the more it all came back to that fateful night the car had broken down after the PTA meeting. The rape.

The rape was the beginning of all my bad luck. The opening door to the ruination of my life. My degradation as a woman.

Before the rape, my life had been peaceful and happy. There were no peak moments of exhilaration, but, on the other hand, no spirit-sapping lows either. Just an even keel that a person of my middle-class background was conditioned to expect.

Considering its pivotal position in my life, I was condemned to mentally re-live the rape over and over again. And, needless to say, the same issue came up repeatedly.

I had not resisted.

Don's lawyer had been right – I had let the rapist fuck me.

This was the key. And it went even beyond such elementary guilt. Even in his brutal accusations, the attorney still had not gotten to the truth that only I knew.

I had come.

Not once, but several times. What's more, I had actually begged for more.

Then there'd been those two cops who'd found me in the street with my throbbing crotch leaking all over the pavement. Not only had they assumed I was an easy piece of ass, I'd performed like one.

Then, of course, after the night of the rape I'd gone wild.

Having lesbian sex with the Avon lady, screwing my psychiatrist, whoring in an alley with a sailor, making love with my children.

Needless to say, this was not the Mary Randall who'd previously devoted her life to being a respectable wife and mother and upholding middle-class values. No, this was a degraded woman. A tramp. Damaged goods.

It was no longer surprising to me that my husband had filed for divorce. After all, when spoilage develops, you have to cut it away to protect the rest of the organism. He had to get rid of me to save the family.

As you can see, I was of the frame of mind that I deserved whatever had happened to me.

And, it had all started when I'd spread my legs and let the rapist fuck me. Had I fought for my virtue I would still have my self-respect.

But then, when I would get to the depths of despair, I would begin to rationalize. It was the only way I could save myself from suicide.

In an abrupt change in point of view, I would say to myself: the rapist's cock was so big. Could any woman have resisted it?

After all, Don's tool was only six inches long, even at its hardest. The rapist's had been almost twice that – and, brother, did he know how to use it. When he'd fucked me, all of my past sexual experiences had faded into insignificance. Suddenly I'd wanted more, more, more!

I had to face it. My rape had opened sexual doors for me that I hadn't even known existed. Following the experience, my libido had gone berserk. Far the first times in my life, I had not only participated in, but sought out, such deviations as adultery, lesbianism, prostitution. In the course of a few months, I had lived a lifetime of thrilling sex. And it had all started with rape.

Yes, rape had become the common denominator of my life. Like it or not, it was now the well-spring of my existence.

After repeatedly reaching this conclusion, I realized what I must do. When a certain point is reached, one can no longer despair over how they became the way they are. Regret eventually becomes a kind of illness, and the only cure is to accept reality.

Reality for me was that I was debased beyond redemption. As a woman I'd fallen to the point where I was only good for one thing – sex.

I might as well forget about being a respectable woman – a wife and mother. From now on, I was nothing but a cunt.